


who were you (after you were mine)

by theviolonist



Category: The Hour
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't like him," says Freddie at the very beginning of this, when Hector is an outsider and they regard him as such, still protected behind their newspapers and curled lips.</p><p>"Why?" Bel asks.</p><p>Freddie shrugs. "He likes you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	who were you (after you were mine)

i.

"I don't like him," says Freddie at the very beginning of this, when Hector is an outsider and they regard him as such, still protected behind their newspapers and curled lips. 

"Why?" Bel asks.

Freddie shrugs. "He likes you," he says bluntly. 

Bel considers laughing in his face. Freddie might consider his love for her servile and all-abiding, but really it's only a facet of his selfishness. If he doesn't like Hector, he must have his reasons. Bel looks outwards, at the man: clean suit, clean hair, clean white teeth. He looks back at her, smiling crookedly and handsome. He's nothing like Freddie. 

Bel had never thought about it before, had never been particularly interested, but now she feels like she might give it a shot.

 

ii.

She lives out of the century, her mother keeps saying it: working all day and coming home to tinned food and occasionally Freddie, lanky and infuriating, sprawled on her couch with no respect for anything that belongs to her except maybe her refusal to give in to him, lascivious like a cat but quick, too. He brings books with him sometimes, heavy dusty tomes that he peruses, never looking up, accepting the food she supplies and thanking her tonelessly.

Sometimes Bel gets the urge to set him free, to tell him, "You don't love me. You don't need to love me. You love your work enough," because it's true, he's what his investigations bring, the gunpowder and restless rumor sizzle in his bones and make him up, build him, animate him. 

But Bel feels lonely, though not aimless like her mother, and finally takes a lover. Hector is gentle and slick and his love for her is devoid of intricacies, not quiet but quieter, which is really all Bel could ask for. Besides, she deserves it.

 

iii.

"So, do you love him?" Freddie's eyes are black and inquisitive, almost accusing. Bel doesn't like it. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says briskly, walking past him into her office. 

He snorts. Jealousy doesn't become him. "Don't play dumb," he says meanly, as though she were a lesser woman. "I saw you. I see you."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" she asks, angry now, her open palms resting on the desk. She is powerful, she is the boss here – he shouldn't forget. 

He sees his mistake, too late. "No," he says, "but -" still trying to be snide, what a jerk. 

"Get out," she says coldly. She doesn't have time for this kind of things. Freddie's way of idling around things without ever making a decision, because he knows he has a wealth of choice, has always irritated her. 

 

iv.

"Do you love him?" Hector asks her when she falls back down on the bed, her chest dotted with beads of sweat. 

A wrinkle creases her brow, she sighs. "What is it with you men today?" she asks aimlessly, reaching for her nightgown. Then a cigarette, which he lights for her, cupping a hand around her mouth. Freddie would never have the presence of mind to do that.

"What do you mean?" he asks, but it's soft, better, more comforting. 

She ponders telling him – but he has problems of his own, a wife he doesn't entirely love and who doesn't entirely love him, work, his family. "Nothing," she says eventually, releasing a puff of smoke. 

She nestles into his body, grounded by the hard planes and the bones of his shoulders and back, all well in place under the skin, satisfied when he doesn't insist.

 

v.

Freddie barges in into her apartment on a Sunday morning, having jammed his fist over her doorbell repeatedly, until she woke up and dragged her feet to the door, wrapped in her bathrobe. "This is getting ridiculous," he says, sounding agitated. 

A minor fury swells into Bel's chest – not that he acts at home in her apartment, she's used to that, but his constant questioning of her relationships. _You're not my father_ , she wants to say, but he would laugh. Of course he's not her father. What, then? Brother? Lover? What is he not to her?

But she's just tired. She rubs her eyes; finds that she craves coffee and pads to the kitchen, wherein he follows her, still flustered. "What is going on?" she asks when the coffeemaker is loaded, tediously dripping into the pot. 

He doesn't sit, instead stands rigidly in the middle of her kitchen, his fists clenched, looking ridiculous. "You and Hector," he says. "He's married."

She laughs. _You couldn't find anything better?_ "So what?"

He frowns. "You're not like that."

It angers her that he has a set image of her, that he's decided who she is, what she should and shouldn't do. Her morals. They probably don't even apply to him. "How do you know?"

He looks at her, aghast. "I know you," he says like it's an evidence. It isn't, not really.

The coffee is ready, she takes the mugs ouf of the cupboard, hers, white with black lettering, and his, yellow and chipped at the rim. "It isn't any of your business," she says, almost tenderly. 

 

vi.

It was easy to be in love with Freddie, at first. He was smart, ever-so-slightly manic and kind of beautiful, with his big eyes and his way of always keeping in motion, never really stopping to breathe. He liked books and was quick to think, to grab on a story and twist it, a child of the new century, visionary even, or at least that's what he convinced you of when you listened to him.

The catch came after, when Bel realized that on top of that he was selfish, consistently infuriating and completely obsessed with his job; that he didn't sleep more than four hours a night and would get himself in trouble every time the opportunity presented itself, unfailingly.

Thankfully, Bel's always been good at self-preservation. She let herself become his friend, insinuated herself in the empty space and never told him how she'd once wanted it to be more than that, not that he'd ever noticed.

She couldn't tell exactly when he convinced himself that he's in love with her. He must have felt – his intuitions are keen – her drawing away, and Bel knows that there's no chance he would've let that pass him by, the shining beacon of unrequited love. He likes it – he revels in it. He loves being the victim. 

It doesn't matter, really; it just means that she knows who he is and how he works, his clinches, that she doesn't buy his smooth, roughly packaged lies. It makes her feel in control, knowing that.

 

vii.

It isn't clear who invited Freddie to dinner with them. Bel is reasonably sure the original plan was to eat with Hector, a quiet, relatively debate-free evening of spaghetti and garlic bread, because Bel is a frankly terrible cook and besides doesn't give a damn about food anyway. He might have invited himself, but he's never done it before and Bel doesn't see a reason why he would now; on the other hand, it's highly unlikely that Hector invited him and Bel doesn't remember doing it either. 

He sits across from Hector with forced casualness, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. Bel looks at the empty table corner and thinks that it describes this quite well, someone missing. 

"Enjoy your meal," Hector says politely. 

Freddie looks up, his fork already halfway to his mouth. He looks surprised and a little angry, his sharp cheekbones sprinkled red. Bel knows what's going on in his mind: he thinks he's lost the upper hand because he doesn't have the moral superiority over the situation anymore. Bel smiles. 

"Thank you," she says, twinning spaghetti around her fork, and smiles. 

 

viii. 

In the end it's surprisingly comfortable, the three of them on the couch with their glasses of red wine, laughing about some thing or other. Bel raises her knees to her chest, Hector leaning into her side and Freddie sitting at their feet, his back against Hector's legs; at some point Hector and Freddie get into an argument about Syria which derives to the nuclear threat which is _clearly_ a conspiracy, according to Freddie, and after that they're all so toasted that it doesn't really matter anymore. 

Bel feels good, mellow and relaxed - joy bubbles in her chest, satisfaction that her boys are finally getting on, mending those ridiculous bridges. Hector glances at her sideways, smiles. Maybe he's not as clueless as he seems, Bel thinks vaguely. 

It makes her happy too, like some weight's been lifted from her shoulders and she's not the only one that has to listen to Freddie recite poems and think she's the love of his life at breakfast and then arch her hips into Hector's at lunch, at least not the only one who _knows_ , who worries. She leans into him, cups his face, kisses him. 

When she pulls away Freddie is looking up at them, his lanky body still folded on itself, his eyes dark and full of intent. If it were anyone else they would probably ask if they should leave but he won't, Bel is sure of it. 

She looks at Hector. He gives her a broad, comfortable grin and nods. 

"Okay then," says Bel. 

She sets down her glass on the arm of the couch, in careful equilibrium. Then she sets her hands on Freddie's shoulders and bends down to meet his mouth, puffy and red and expectant, no matter what he'll say tomorrow. He makes a little surprised noise, but she laughs, won't let go. So he gives in. 

"Good," Bel says when they disentangle. She rakes a hand through her hair, messing it up even more. "Good," she repeats. 

 

ix. 

Breakfast is peaceful, a surprise too. Hector makes eggs for them and Bel doesn't ask him where his wife thinks he is, Freddie perches cross-legged on a chair and hogs the paper and Bel catches up on some paperwork. The radio is streaming soft jazz and Bel thinks, _this isn't the end of my problems_. It probably isn't, but it's enjoyable nonetheless. 

The world outside is sharp and indifferent, bites on occasion, but in there they're good, they can even pretend to be something, a made-up unity of circles and squares, they can pretend they fit into each other and not look at the arrangement twice, forgetting to see how crooked it is. 

"How do you like your eggs?" Hector asks Freddie, holding his spatula over the softly sizzling pan. 

Freddie looks up from the politics section. "Scrambled," he says. 

Bel tilts her head. "The magic word," she says with a smile. 

Freddie scowls; Hector laughs. It jars Freddie, surprises something out of him that looks suspiciously like wonder. 

"Please," he adds, the word loaded with more meaning than he probably intended it to, and Bel thinks, _hm, maybe there's something there._ She's always had a knack for the avant-garde, after all. 

 

x. 

They make a half-assed effort to arrive separately at the office, which fools no one, especially not Liz. She looks up sharply from her own newspaper as Bel walks into the room, her glasses sliding down on her nose. 

"Good night?" she asks. 

Bel thinks about it for a minute. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Freddie sneaking in the back, and Hector behind him, his head bent to tell him something, slick and charming. Maybe she could answer their questions now, their questions about love. Maybe there's a chance for her after all; maybe her mother was wrong. 

She gives Liz a grin, smoothing her hands over her jacket. "Yes," she says, her voice steady. "You?"

Liz laughs knowingly. Sometimes Bel feels like she has the answers to the universe and wants to ask her, to find out; today she loads the coffeemaker and thinks that maybe she can figure it out on her own.


End file.
